Mortal Elixir
by Morning Dew
Summary: One-Shot Fic! After a fateful night in which the Brooklyn lodging house was burnt down, the newsies turn their back on one from their brood. But things aren't always as they seem. Will an outcast solve the mystery, or perish in the doing?


DISCLAIMER: Eh, I don't own any of the newsies, ay? But Runner Conlon and Mr. Merriam belong to ME. In your face, Mickey! But the song lyrics belong to Michael W. Smith from his single "Missing Person". Great hit! 

**~*Mortal Elixir*~**

_Another question in me   
One for the powers that be   
It's got me thrown   
And so I put on my poker face   
And try to figure it out   
This undeniable doubt   
A common occurrence   
Feeling so out of place_

            The bitter names 'Runner Conlon' and 'Outcast' are interchangeable in the feared realm of Brooklyn, New York. Waking up from only five hours of sleep on moth-eaten mattresses with busted springs, the newsboys wipe the residue of dreams and nightmares from their tired eyes and stampede into the lodging house's only washroom where they push and shove each other for equal share of the freezing water and a slab of soap. 

            One boy lingers behind, his emerald green eyes diverted to the splintered wood of the floor, his golden hair a ruffled mess under the derby hat he slept in last night. He wonders upon perhaps starting a conversation with a boy just a yard or so away from him, but quickly dismisses the thought. Ever since the 'accident', not one Brookylnite has spoken to him. Ever. They ignore him, like a rangy mutt disregards a chewed out bone. They don't even look at him; it's almost as if they fear being contaminated if they do.

            But Runner doesn't blame them, for he's come to believe they have every reason to overlook his very existence. On rainy nights, when the outside chills of the storm seep through the poorly insulated walls of the lodge, he thinks upon the night that revolutionized his way of things and mourns inward tears. 

            His shivers are violent, but he utters no complaint and simply curls up in a ball like a child fearing the tumultuous wrath of a parent. The other newsboys couldn't care less about his troubles. Perhaps that is why he walked into the bunkroom one day, only to find his rightful bed stripped of its sheets………all the possessions he kept under the frame and within the case of his pillow gone. 

            Thereafter, he always considered it a foul trick, but doesn't raise his voice in protest. They wouldn't hear him anyways; they've become oblivious to his presence. The only covers that warm his body at night now are the layers of disrespect he encounters from those he once called his friends. 

_Guarded and cynical now   
Can't help but wondering how   
My heart evolved into   
A rock beating inside of me   
So I reel   
Such a stoic ordeal   
Where's that feeling that I don't feel?_

            Their failure to make him feel a due member of the human race has hardened him in many ways. He meanders through the borough alone, thinking he might've had companions in the morning editions the others peddle………but a fierce remembrance of how the distribution office's manager paid no heed to his request for fifty papers overlaps that notion. At noon, when the newsboys take a break for a 2-cent meal at a local diner, he slides into the booth farthest away from the popular clichés. Once upon a time, he had fellowshipped with them, but they've turned their backs on him and want nothing of his company. 

            On occasion, he stands behind his elder cousin, Spot Conlon, as the Brooklyn leader lounges about on his throne of crates on the docks and tries to exchange words in hopes of making an innocent conversation. Spot never answers him back; he never even glances up to Runner to acknowledge him, as if his audacity to speak insults 'his highness'. 

            And so Runner's given up on the world, for the world has apparently given up on him. He willingly sells his soul to cynicism, letting the darkness pierce every shard of his shattered being. _To hell with it all_, he thinks to himself, cursing his life for ruining him in its own doing. He loses hope eventually………and soon realizes he no longer has anything to live for. 

_There was a boy who had the faith to move a mountain _

_And like a child he would believe without a reason _

_Without a trace, he disappeared into the void and _

_I've been searching for that missing person_

            He many times reenacts what happened those long months ago in his mind. Daydreaming has become as dear to him as salvation is for the perishing soul, and for lack of better things to do, he lets his imagination engage in the task. But creativity is not needed where the past is involved………

            Towering flames flashed crimson warnings to distances as far as ten blocks away when the Brooklyn lodging house fell prey to a fire one evening. The edifice was slowly being eaten away by the monster of nature, and would in mere minutes be reduced to ashes. The cackling blaze tore through the lodge like a child tearing down an assembly of blocks with one great hand swipe, and all the while, the Brooklynites watched on with horrified faces.

            At the time, Runner Conlon was admired by his peers and stood as close to the building as the authorities would allow, right beside his cousin, Spot. The two relatives shared worried glances before their eyes returned to the sight of their home crumbling to the dirty streets of New York. Another underdog whipped into submission by a losing hand of cards.

            It wasn't until the muffled cry of a boy still trapped inside the lodging house reached the others' ears that anxiety ran frantically among the masses gathered. 

            Spot's eyes widened. "I thought ya said we'se had all our boiys out?"

            "That's what Scape told me," the younger replied coolly before clucking his tongue with a nonchalant air that infuriated the Brooklyn leader. 

            "Well I aint gunna stand heah and watch one of me boiys boin tah death. I'm goin' in for 'im." With an admirable determination, Spot rid himself of his shirt and threw the petty garment to the ground with a gleam in his eyes. "Distract the bulls while I'se go in."

            Runner almost let him go, but felt the sting of his conscience like a viper's bite, and stepped forward. "Spot, wait. There's somethin' youse should know." He bit the inside of his cheek hesitantly and nearly laughed at his cousin's impatient expression. But then he grew serious. "The fire was my fault, Spot. It was a bet………a bet that got way outta hand. If anybody should be goin' back into the building, it's me." Without another word, he strode off to the burning edifice and left Spot behind………the infamous newsie for once speechless.

            Upon entering what was once the lodging house, Runner could scarcely breathe. His subconscious screamed at him to abandon the mission and save himself, but the boy wouldn't lose the fight effortlessly. Smoke clogged his lungs almost instantly, a feeling of dizziness and surreal vision drenching him. And the heat………it reminded him of the scorching dragon breath he had loved to read about in fairy tales as a child. He could feel his skin peeling from the burns, and knew he'd have to make this rescue a quick one.  

            He finally located the boy; a five year old called Runt for his small stature. "Don't worry, kid," he said soothingly, kneeling down to scoop the child up in his arms. "I'm gunna get ya outta heah." He took a step forward and then glanced up upon hearing a crashing noise above him. Before he could make the slightest move, a ceiling beam plummeted two stories and collapsed onto the pair of Brooklynites. 

            By the time Runner finally found the strength to crawl out from under the burden, the firemen had already extinguished the flames. He crawled out wearily on all fours………his back feeling as if it had been smashed to diminutive fragments of bone. His arms were wavering as he made his way outside, and he had every desire to simply lie down and die. Once he fell onto the front stoop of the lodge, he realized he forgot Runt back in the rubbish behind him; the disappointed looks of agony on his comrades' faces were unmistakable. 

_Under a lavender moon   
So many thoughts consume me   
Who dimmed that glowing light   
That once burned so bright in me?   
Is this a radical phase,   
A problematical age   
That keeps me running   
From all that I used to be?_

            The Manhattan boys host a Christmas celebration at Irving Hall. They invited all their allies to the festivities, but Runner doesn't even have to think twice to know he's not included in that elite association. No one would want him there, and he accepts that fact with a certain sadness. 

            So instead, he takes to the docks. They're void of any occupants and he can hear the steady hum of the river below him, the crashing of the small waves against the firm structures of the pillars. He wishes he could be like those pillars. He wishes that he could stand unmoving no matter what attempted to force him this way or that. But Fate doesn't grant his wish tonight, and he knows she never will. 

            Watching the moon play hide and seek with those beautiful stars with which it shares the skies, Runner muses over how great life had once been for him. He used to _be somebody. His name used to __mean something. The adults he knew used to tell him that he had an anointed spirit about him that shone brighter than a summer Sun; that he had an optimism in his possession that never seemed to die out. But it _had_ died out. How?_

            Was this some freakish side-affect of teen angst? Was his body destroying himself? Or………was it something else?

_Is there a way to return,   
Is there a way to unlearn   
That carnal knowledge   
That's chipping away at my soul?   
I've been gone too long_

_Will I ever find my way home?_

            He's strolling down the walks of downtown Brooklyn one morning when he accidentally stumbles into a man dressed in a three piece suit who had been carrying a briefcase until the newsboy had knocked it out of his grasp. Truly sorry for the mishap, Runner falls to his knees and helps the man recollect his belongings.

            "Thank you, young chap," the man says in a feint English accent. "You've been most helpful. It's hard to find kindhearted people such as yourself in a notorious borough like this one."

            Runner nods in agreement. "Well, it was my fault. I should watch where I'se is goin'." 

            "Not at all, not at all!" Impressed with the consideration of the newsboy, the man-who later introduces himself as Mr. Merriam-treats Runner for a small breakfast at a nearby café.

            "So what brings you to the city?" Runner asks, while staring at the toast across from him. He doesn't reach for it, and realizes quite belatedly that he's not even hungry. As a matter of fact, he hasn't been hungry for much too long. Had his body lost its appetite as a survival technique? 

            The man went on to explain that he was the head professor of a new division some Pennsylvanian university had opened up. "It deals with the supernatural," he says after a few moments. Looking to the boy to see a hint of skepticism but finding none, he continues. "There's been repeated ghost sightings around this area. I was sent by the chief over looker of the division to see if I could detect any paranormal activity." 

            "Sounds like fun."

            "Oh it gets better," Mr. Merriam replies with an excited grin. "There's one particular story we've been trying to solve. Nearly a year ago, a fire broke out in a newsboy lodging house." He sees Runner's attention perk up, and thinks nothing of it. "Two boys were lost in the fire, but the parents of one Lucas Conlon have been told by members of their congregation that he's been sighted all across the city."

            Runner's face pales. The man continues. "But the thing is………this Lucas Conlon was supposed to have died in that confounded fire! And it seems as if everything matches up! Those who've seen him wandering the streets claim his appearance is faded, as if he's a painting on a soaked canvas frame. The lining of his figure shimmers whenever he moves, and he speaks to no one. Only watches."

            "I've been searching for any signs of this boy for quite a while now!" He pauses to take a sip of his coffee. He notices his young companion looks to be in shock, but then again, so does everyone who hears Mr. Merriam's seemingly ridiculous tales. "You see, I was once told that there's a special aura about me, a gift I was blessed with at birth. I can see ghosts. Anywhere I go, they come to me, and I can relate with them. Sometimes, I even confuse them for real human beings!" He chuckles a hearty laugh.

            Runner tries to grasp the table before him as he rises to his feet but is unsuccessful. His fall is a hard one, and the world seems to shift when his head meets the tile surface below. 

_He used to want to try to walk the straight and narrow   
He had a fire and he could feel it in the marrow   
It's been a long time and I haven't seen him lately but   
I've been searching for that missing person._

            There was no blood when he fell, and now he knows why. Mr. Merriam tried to send for a medical unit to see to the boy's injury, but Runner knew it would only be in vain. What was the use?

            He repeats that question to him as he walks back home to Brooklyn. What is the use of even sleeping in the God-forsaken lodging house that was renovated after the fire? Didn't he just sleep simply because it was expected of him anyways? And was Brooklyn really his home? Or was there a far greater place expecting his arrival?

            He glances up to the heavens, but Jacob's ladder has yet to descend. 

            Runner feels he'll be waiting for an eternity for that wondrous miracle. 

            Then again, he figures he has all the time in the world. A thought surfaces in his mind, one that suggests he go back to his ordinary routine. But what was the use? What was the use when he had nothing to live for anymore? When he had no means by which to even live………

~*~*~*~*~

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